Remembering Anya

This morning, as I meditated, I found my thoughts drifting inexorably to Anya. I kissed her, once. We had drinks twice. She sent me a few dozen supremely hot photos of her supremely hot body over the course of a year or so, generally unbidden.

A few weeks ago, she surfaced in my fantasies, and promptly receded. This morning, though, she didn’t recede. Rather, she approached, immovable.

Kneeling, she was. Wordless, in a dark hotel room, her hands behind her back, her mouth, open, waiting, as I slowly, gently, fed her my cock.